I Still Think You're Beautiful
by Frerard Lovers
Summary: When Sherlock makes a shocking discovery about John's habits, all he wants to do is help. *JOHNLOCK*


John closed and slammed the bathroom door behind him, breathing heavily. He had been at work all day, seeing patient after patient. He had been both disappointed and relieved to find Sherlock was gone, most likely working on a case. John rummaged under the sink until he found what he was looking for: a razor blade. He closed his eyes and put the sharp metal to his wrist immediately. He had needed this all day. As the blade dragged across his skin and the blood poured out, images of the war filled his mind. Screaming mothers grabbing their innocent children, men crying into their lifeless wives. And the pain was gone.

Just then, Sherlock came bustling into the apartment, having been out at Scotland Yard, going over a case with Lestrade that he was eager to share with John. "John!" he called, knowing the doctor was already home.

John gasped when he heard his name being called. "J-Just a minute!" he said nervously, his voice cracking and somewhere in the back of his mind he was afraid Sherlock would notice. He washed the blade off, disinfecting it and drying it off before shoving it to the back of medicine cabinet beneath the sink. _Shit_ he thought. He still needed to bandage this and cover the rest of his scars with make-up. _Great_ he looked down. _Blood on the floor, too._

Sherlock noticed the waver in John's voice, and knew something was amiss. He crept silently down the hall to the bathroom where he had heard John's voice coming from. He didn't bother knocking as he swung the door open. And when he did, for once in his life, he was speechless. John, holding his still bleeding wrists, was staring at him like a deer in the headlights.

"Sh-Sherlock! Get out!" John yelled once he came to his senses. His heart was beating hard and fast and he felt sick as Sherlock stared at his wrist in horror. He backed away from the door, knowing he should be doing exactly the opposite and shoving the detective out of the bathroom. He mentally cursed himself for not locking the door.

Sherlock just walked in the bathroom quickly, grabbing John's wrist as soon as he was close enough. "John..." he breathed, letting one long finger move along the scars, avoiding the fresh cut, "Why? Why did you do this?"

John jerked his arms from Sherlock's grasp, wincing when his hand brushed against the cut. "It's none of your business," he spat angrily. "Get. Out," he demanded.

Sherlock looked at John's face, which he could read effortlessly by this point. He could see brokenness and pain there, and wanted nothing more than to fix the blonde haired man. He didn't know why he got that urge, he hardly ever gave a damn about any one but himself, but he did. "John," he said, not backing away, "You're hurting, I can tell. I want to help. Tell me how I can help."

"I don't want your help," John stepped around him, grabbing the first aid kit and getting to work fixing up the long cut. He growled in frustration when the bandage wouldn't cooperate with him. "Dammit!" John swore.

Sherlock walked to John and said, "Let me," taking the bandage from him. He skillfully fixed it into place in no time at all. Then he spun the shorter man around to face him and said, "Look, I know I am not good with this stuff, but I care about you. I want to know why you're hurting yourself. Please talk to me John."

John closed his eyes and swallowed. He didn't know if he should let Sherlock help. What if he realized that John really was messed up and his PTSD was worse than what he originally thought. The detective would want to to send him to a shrink, most likely, and even though deep down John knew that was what he needed, but he was selfish. He didn't want that. "It's just... memories, Sherlock. From the war," John sighed. Surely that couldn't do too much harm.

"Memories?" Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow, "This looks like a lot more than memories." He gestured to John's bandaged wrist as he said that. He wanted to say more, but didn't want to pry. Didn't know HOW to pry, at least in this situation. He didn't know how to handle these types of situations, and was afraid to say something wrong.

"It's nothing, Sherlock," John looked down, ashamed. "Sometimes I just remember things that happened, and it's too much." He shifted slightly, bringing his shoulder to brush against Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock felt a jolt of electricity go through his body when John brushed against him. "Tell me how I can help," he breathed, genuinely wanting to.

John shook his head silently as he stared at the floor. He tried and failed not to lean into Sherlock's body, scooting just a little bit closer to the warm body of the detective who was still wrapped up in his coat.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, feeling that it was the right thing to do. "Please John," he whispered, "Tell me how I can make you forget the war. Let me fix you."

John frowned but leaned into Sherlock a little more. Did Sherlock really think it was that simple? That you could just erase years of his life? Sure, it was easy for the detective to do, but not John. Without thinking, he shifted even closer to his best friend so now his shoulder was pressed tightly against Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock felt that bit of electricity go through him again as John moved closer still to him. He sighed, and, looking down at the blond man, said, "Please talk to me John. Please let me in. You know I don't usually need to be told what you're thinking, but now is one of the rare times where I just can't figure you out."

John sighed and nodded, but he wasn't exactly sure what he was agreeing too. "I...I just don't know, though, Sherlock. This is years of my life. I can't just... pretend it never happened." He allowed his eyes to flick up to Sherlock's briefly before they dropped to one of the black buttons on his coat. He reached up and started playing with it absentmindedly.

"Maybe I could distract you..." Sherlock said uncertainly, a rare thing for him. He didn't even know what he was saying, didn't know if he could do what he was potentially suggesting. He didn't even know if John would want it.

John's eyebrows scrunched together. "Distract me?" he asked, his eyes going back up to look Sherlock in the eyes.

Sherlock tilted John's head up a bit, and without thinking, again a rare thing for him, pressed his lips to John's.

John's eyes widened and he pushed away instantly. "Sherlock, are you sure?" he asked worriedly, biting his lip. "I mean, I always thought that you were, you know-" _asexual_ "-married to your work."

"John..." Sherlock sighed, looking away from John. "I am. Or at least I was. Then you came along, and at first I thought you were ordinary, boring. You proved me wrong, time and time again. I felt affection towards you, I wanted to protect you; that was not a feeling I was used to. I wasn't even able to name it for a while. Then one night, while I had three patches on my arm, sitting in that chair just thinking, it hit me: I love you. I love you, and I thought love was an impossible feeling, at least for me. But you changed that; you changed me."

John stood staring at the man in amazement. This man - this impossible, frustrating man - loved him. One moment he stood about foot away from the detective and the next his lips were on his, moving his mouth with Sherlock's and prying his lips open with his tongue.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist, letting one hand splay on the small of his back. Sherlock moaned gently into the kiss, the electricity bouncing between their lips like nothing he had ever felt before.

John moaned back and deepened the kiss, nipping at Sherlock's lips while one hand went up to cup the back of his neck while the other gripped his long trench coat. John moaned as well, the sound swallowed by Sherlock's full, pink lips.

Sherlock ran his hands up John's back, under his shirt, feeling the cool, smooth skin there. As he did so, he slid his tongue into the shorter's mouth, wanting to taste every inch of John he could get to.

John couldn't hold himself back any longer and his fingers began to push the buttons through the loops on Sherlock's coat. "Take it off," he said.

Sherlock did as he was told, popping the buttons out quickly then shrugging the coat to the floor. As soon as it was off, he dove back for John's lips, missing them already.

John moved out of the way and Sherlock's lips ended up on the corner of his mouth. "Bedroom," he whispered huskily. "If this is what you want," John added.

"I want it," Sherlock breathed, already half hard, "For the first time in my life, I want it." Then he grabbed John's hand and practically dragged him to his room.

John trailed behind him, squeezing his hand. When they reached the Sherlock's bedroom, John fisted his fingers into the detectives shirt collar and fell backwards onto the bed, pulling Sherlock down with him. He wrapped his legs around Sherlock's slim waist and pressed his lips to his.

Sherlock moved his own hands to cup John's face, rubbing his thumbs over the blond's cheekbones. He deepened the kiss slightly, then realized he had no idea how to proceed. Nothing he had ever done had gone beyond this, and when he did even this, it was all very clinical, nothing but a way to get further into a case. "John," he whispered, pulling back, "I've never done something like this before."

"I haven't either. As far as anything with a man. But I trust you," John told Sherlock truthfully. He winced the slightest when his wrist brushed against Sherlock's back, and he hoped the other man hadn't noticed. He placed his lips at the base of the taller man's throat and began sucking and nipping at the smooth skin, sighing in content here and there.

Sherlock noticed John's flinch, of course; he noticed everything. He ignored it though, seeing that John clearly did not want to stop. He ran his hands down John's back, stopping at the hem of his shirt, tugging gently there. "Get it off," he growled, wanting to see John.

John's heart stuttered briefly at the idea of Sherlock being able to see the other various cuts and burns on his hips and thighs. "You first," he muttered shyly.

Sherlock scrunched his eyebrows together, wondering why John was so hesitant. Nevertheless, he complied and reached to the front of his own shirt, undoing the buttons quickly.

John helped him push it off Sherlock's arms. He ran his hands up Sherlock's pale smooth chest and sighed in envy. As much as he couldn't stop the self harm, he didn't like the way the scars littered and marked his body. He was jealous that Sherlock only had a few freckles and moles, along with a couple _accidental_ scars on his long, lean body.

Sherlock arched his back slightly, John's gentle touches sending thrills through his body. But he also heard the sigh, and detected the emotion behind it. "What's the matter John?" he breathed.

"I just... My body..." He didn't really know how to put it. "Nothing. Just, please?" he didn't really know what he was asking for, but he begged anyways.

"John," Sherlock said, concern in his voice now, "You are beautiful. And you know I don't throw those kind of words around. What's wrong?"

John looked up at him sheepishly. "My scars," he told the other man. "They're not the prettiest things in the world."

Sherlock nodded, understanding, or trying his hardest to. "I wanna see them," he said firmly, "I wanna see every inch of you, John, the perfect _and_ the imperfect."

John sighed and nodded, a little more sure of himself. He leaned up and pulled his gray t-shirt off with ease, watching Sherlock's face. He gripped the detective's forearm and waited for him to say something.

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, seeing the destruction on John's hips. He ran his hand over the angry red scars, being gentle, not wanting to irritate any of the fresher ones. "How long?" he asked, "How long has this been going on?"

"About a month after I got back from Afghanistan. The flash backs and dreams have gotten better since then, but I still can't bring myself to stop." His hold tightened on Sherlock's arm, just above his elbow.

"Do you want to stop?" Sherlock asked, looking back up at John. After his own struggles with addiction, he knew that you could never stop unless you actually wanted to and were willing to try.

"No," John whispered, moving his hands back to Sherlock's chest before trailing down his toned abdomen. He curled his fingers around Sherlock's hips and massaged them gently.

Sherlock was genuinely surprised at that. "Why not? If you hate the scars so much, why not try to stop making them? I'm not gonna make you do anything, I just want to understand."

"It feels too good," John sighed once again, used to having this conversation with himself. He pressed a chaste kiss to Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock knew exactly what John was talking about, having the same argument whenever someone had tried to make him stop his drug use. "I know," he whispered, pressing a small kiss to John's neck.

John moaned happily at the feeling of Sherlock's smooth lips against his skin. "Sherlock," he begged. "Need you."

"Tell me what you need," Sherlock said, already knowing what John wanted. He sucked harder on John's neck, raking his fingers down his back.

John gasped loudly and leaned his head back up so Sherlock had better access. "You," he whined, frustrated. "I want you to take me," he moaned.

"Mmmm..." Sherlock hummed in the back of his throat, nipping at the hollow behind John's ear. He ran his hands down John's chest, brushing his fingers over the shorter man's nipples.

John shuddered and arched into Sherlock's touch. His hands went down to the detective's belt buckle. "Pants," he muttered, fumbling with the cold metal.

Sherlock reached down, pushing John's clumsy hands away gently. "Let me," he breathed, undoing the belt and popping out the button and bringing down the zipper on his pants.

John shivered in anticipation and felt his cock twitch against Sherlock's thigh, something he knew the man could feel. "Hurry," he bit his lip. He wanted to see and touch Sherlock, wrap himself around him.

Sherlock kicked his pants off, his boxers going with them and his erection springing forward. He then undid John's pants, tugging them down as far as he could.

"Fuck me," John growled, reaching down with his own hand to try to shimmy out of his own boxers, but it proved too difficult without both hands so he gave up. "Fuck me so hard, Sherlock."

"I want to so fucking much, John," Sherlock groaned, pulling John's boxers down for him. He moaned at the sight of the shorter's erection, red and weeping. He ran one spidery hand over it, grasping tightly.

John let out a choked broken moan. "Lube. We need lube." He realized that Sherlock probably wouldn't have any but he decided to ask anyways.

Sherlock shook his head, and instead brought his three fingers to John's mouth (God was he glad he had watched that gay porn for a case one time, so he at least knew to do this) and said "Suck."

John immediately drew the digits into his mouth and swirled his tongue around them, sucking and licking and looking up at Sherlock with wide innocent eyes as he did so. His legs went back up to wrap around Sherlock's slim waist.

Sherlock pulled his fingers out of John's mouth, and moved them down to rub his index finger on John's puckered hole. Once he felt John relax enough, he slid it in to the second knuckle.

John moaned at the feeling of being stretched. "Sherlock," he breathed out. "Little more," he asked.

Sherlock pushed his finger the rest of the way in, and started to slowly move it and out. "Is this good?" he asked apprehensively, unsure if he was doing it right.

"Yes," John whimpered out, pushing down on Sherlock's finger. "A-Add another. I can take more," he said as he circled his hips.

Sherlock nudged a second finger into the blue-eyed man, speeding up his movements slightly. He recalled that it was supposed to feel good to have your prostate touched, and started searching for it inside John.

Only a moment later, John's head shot up in surprise as he let out a long, sultry moan. "Oh God. Fuck, what was that? What did you do? Do it again," he pushed down on the digit once again.

"I think that was your prostate," Sherlock breathed, eyes widening at John's reaction. God, he looked perfect like this. He moved his fingers to nudge repeatedly at the spot, adding pressure in small increments.

"Uh, hng. Yes, ahh," John hissed as his back arched. "Sh-Sherlock. Fuck me, oh!"

Sherlock scissored for a few more moments, stretching John as much as he could manage before pulling his fingers back out. He lined his cock up with John's hole, and nudged the head in. "Fuck..." he breathed, the tightness better than anything he had ever felt, overwhelming his senses.

John gasped and threaded his fingers into Sherlock's hair, his thighs twitching. "More, Sherlock," he whispered into the man's ear. "I need more." He raked his finger nails up Sherlock's back slowly and rocked his hips, causing Sherlock to go a little deeper.

It was Sherlock turn to gasp then, the heat around his length feeling exquisite. He moved deeper, not stopping until his balls met the skin of John's ass. He started to thrust shallowly, the friction feeling amazing.

"Oh," John moaned. The feeling of being stretched felt so good and so painful at the same time. "Mmm..."

"Do you want more?" Sherlock asked, detecting a slight hint of pain in John's voice, and not wanting to start fucking him in earnest until he knew it was okay.

"God yes," John moaned. "Faster, Sherlock. I need more. Need you," he panted in frustration as he tried to push himself down onto Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock started to thrust into John faster, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in. "Shit..." he groaned, his head flopping back.

John fisted his fingers into Sherlock's unruly, curly hair and grunted. It was painful the first few thrusts, but then he felt that sweet spot being grazed again and he nearly lost it. "Right there! Fuck, Sherlock. It's right there! Don't stop," he moaned.

Sherlock locked onto that spot, ramming into it hard with every thrust. John's tunnel wrapped around his dick, it was the best thing he had ever felt. Sherlock had never felt lust or sexual attraction before John, but now he knew he would want this every night.

John let out gasps and moans, and he attached his lips to Sherlock's neck to try to be more quiet, but he couldn't help let out a whine here and there. "So fucking good."

"Fuck John..." Sherlock groaned, and felt a coiling heat building in his stomach already. He knew he was getting close from that one time he masturbated in his teenage years. "I-I'm close..." he moaned, knowing it was a bit soon, but he was a virgin and what could you expect?

John whimpered. "I'm not ready." He reached down and wrapped his hand around the base of his cock and began to pump at the same rhythm Sherlock was pounding into him. "Sherlock," he grunted.

Sherlock slowed his movements, trying to make himself last longer for John. He moved John's hand away from his cock, and replaced it with his own. "Let me," he breathed, starting to jerk his hand quickly, trying to bring John closer to completion.

John's breath was coming out in whiny, needy moans, and he knew he probably sounded like a slut, but he didn't care. He was so used to being in charge in bed, that to lie back and be dominated like this felt amazing. He sunk his teeth into Sherlock's neck and cried out, getting close.

Sherlock took that as a sign that John was getting closer, and sped up his thrusts again, slamming into John's prostate. "Fuck, fuck," he groaned, feeling his climax building further. He kept it contained, though, wanting to see if he could make John cum first.

John wasn't even expecting his orgasm just yet, but suddenly he was cumming all over both of their chests with some even reaching his chin. He gasped at the sudden onslaught of pleasure. "FUCK!"

John's ass squeezed impossibly tight as he came, sending Sherlock over the edge too. "Christ John!" he cried as he spilled inside John, the orgasm more intense than anything he had ever felt. He thrust shallowly a few more times, before pulling out and collapsing next to John.

John whimpered in sensitivity and rolled onto his side, wiping the drip of cum off his chin. "That was," he panted, "the best sex I've ever had."

"Same with me, seeing as how it's the only I've ever had," Sherlock chuckled. He rolled onto his side so he was facing John, and started to kiss up and down his neck. "Did I distract you?" he asked, breathing against John's ear.

"Mmm," John hummed contently. "Very much so. You should distract me more often." He stretched his neck out to give Sherlock more room. "If you want to, that is."

Sherlock smirked into John's neck and responded, "Oh believe me, I want to..."

"Good," John said as he trailed his finger up Sherlock's chest and through a strand of John's cum.

Sherlock glanced down at himself, and saw the state he was in. He frowned slightly then grumbled, "I probably have to get cleaned up, don't I?"

"I don't know. I wouldn't mind if you walked around the flat looking like this," John smirked as he looked down at the detective's body. "You're so beautiful."

"You're more beautiful," Sherlock breathed, pressing his lips gently to John's.

John thought about the scars all along his hips and thighs and couldn't disagree more. He suddenly felt ashamed and self-conscience. He tugged the blankets so it would at least cover up the areas on his body littered with thin, red lines.

Sherlock saw the self-conscious look come across John's face, and reached to pick up John's wrist. He gently kissed the scars there, muttering, "You're perfect, John."

John frowned but didn't say anything, only drew his arm out of Sherlock's reach. He shifted in the bed.

Sherlock drew John closer to him, and said, "You don't believe me, do you?"

John looked anywhere but Sherlock's eyes. "It's kind of hard to when you look like this," John told him.

"Like what?" Sherlock said, "John, you are beautiful. Every part of you, even your scars. They are all a part of you, and you shouldn't feel ashamed because of them."

John felt himself tear up, but refused to let them spill over. "I love you, Sherlock," John sniffed. The army doctor wasn't usually one to get emotional, but he couldn't help but let one lone tear trail down his cheek.

Sherlock smiled slightly and brushed the tear off John's cheek with one thin, pale hand. "I love you too, John," he whispered as he bent down to place a light kiss on John's lips.

John kissed him back softly, letting out a content moan at the feeling of Sherlock's full, swollen lips moving with his own. He let his fingers grip onto Sherlock's, wild, dark curls and sighed happily.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist, pulling him closer for a brief moment before pulling back and breaking the kiss. "John," he sighed, "I've never felt this way before about anyone. I don't know anything about this kind of relationship. Where do we go from here?"

"I don't really know. I guess we just... go along with whatever happens," John shrugged while snuggling up to Sherlock's warm body. His arm draped over Sherlock's waist while his hand splayed across his back. "We'll just have to see."

Sherlock smiled softly, and drew John closer to him, resting his head on top of the shorter man's. "I like that idea," he said, then bent his head to place a kiss on John's.

"Mmm," John hummed in agreement. "I think tomorrow we should just lie in bed all day," he sighed. "No cases, no work..."

Sherlock chuckled into John's hair, and replied, "I like that idea too."

John smiled. His eyelids drooped closed and he sighed contently once again. "G'night Sherlock," he murmured into the crook of the detective's long neck.

"Night John," Sherlock breathed, feeling himself falling into one of his rare sleeps, "Love you."

"Love you too," John mumbled before finally drifting off.

**Sherlock's POV by Casey**

**John's POV by Anna**


End file.
